


Count Your Blessings

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Character of Faith, Dreams, F/F, F/M, Female Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prayer, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sibyl spends her life praying to the gods and losing both herself and those she loves. She believes she finally receives an answer in Gannicus and aims to be the hands the gods require. The gods always have unexpected plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Sibyl could barely remember life before dominus's attentions. Her mother was a body slave and her father a bodyguard, and because of their fair faces, a child had been encouraged. Sibyl had been born of beauty, her eyes large and features delicate. Her dominus had been pleased and took pleasure in looking at her.

 

Sibyl did not like how his eyes lay heavy upon her, nor how his hands pinched tight at her wrists. Her discomfort earned her less food and her hair pulled tight until tears came. Her mother scolded her quietly.

 

“Do not discard what so many seek.”

 

Sibyl watched as others were beaten and thrown back to auction for mistakes displeasing to dominus. Sibyl's mother held her gaze, saying much without words. Sibyl stared back as her mother tended to domina, silent and perfect, her eyes blank when dominus called Sibyl closer. Dominus's breath was like rotting fruit. Sibyl prayed for her mother's stillness.

 

Other slaves watched her through jealous eyes, pinching her when unobserved and sneering at her fine wrappings and indulgent foods. Dominus was preoccupied with her, unwinding more of her each night. Sibyl answered his questions with careful sweetness, and strived to find what pleased him, what would keep her alive and in the same house as her family. She prayed to the gods as he lurched above her, his smell choking her. She could no longer sleep through the night.

 

Diotimos was her answered prayer. Handsome, but not suited as a body slave, he was put to work in the kitchens and grain house. He worked hard, but loathed dominus, staring and sneering every moment dominus's back was turned. He spoke of escape and freedom.

 

“Open eyes, Sibyl, observe what fills these fucking rooms. If you do not, you will never gain freedom. You must _look_.”

 

His words meant little. Sibyl felt the bite of chains, but preferred them to death or slavers. Dominus unwound yet more of her, and then without warning sold her mother and father when other slaves caught his eye. He held no loyalty or affection to those that had served him faithfully. Sibyl didn’t get to say goodbye. Her treasured last memory of them was the blank careful masks they wore for dominus and domina.

 

Her night terrors grew worse. Diotimos took to sleeping at her side, careful to leave her untouched.

 

“More than one together will see nightmares vanish,” was all he said.

 

And if the other slaves perceived their bond differently, it meant Sibyl was left alone, for Diotimos's temper was a thing to fear. Yet he had laughter in him that touched Sibyl, lifting spirits she thought lost forever. He called her Angerona, goddess who relieved pain and sorrow. He was wrong; for he was the one who relieved hurts as though powered by the gods, until the night he disappeared.

 

That evening he kissed Sibyl's brow and whispered stories of Neptune's vast rolling seas, Diana's bow, and Liber's flowing wine. He told her, with fresh urgency, to open eyes and observe, to use her fucking words, for there was value in the voice she kept hidden. He talked of Spartacus, the Bringer of Rain, and all he promised. When the sun rose, he was gone. Dominus shouted with rage and buried his anger in Sibyl. She gasped, as though from pleasure, and sent prayers to Saturn for Diotimos. Later, alone and private, she prayed to Angerona, tears hard in her eyes.

 

She thought of him every cold lonely night, until he returned, wild-eyed and filthy. Her heart leapt and his eyes triumphantly met hers, but all words were stolen from them when dominus struck Diotimos down. Every last ember of hope died in Sibyl, even as she snatched at the keys, at the last thing Diotimos had held, and dominus sneered and proclaimed their deaths. She thought of Angerona and prayed _may this be swift, please may I see them again_.

 

Then dominus fell at the hands of a man, an answer from the gods. Sibyl stared with wide eyes, _thank you_.


	2. Chapter 2

The answer had a name – Gannicus – and he did not like her. Sibyl could not stop watching him, watching the good he wrought, how well he fought and loved. His woman, Saxa, thought to present Sibyl as reward and pleasure. Gannicus was a man who revelled in such things and if he would find pleasure in her, it was small reward for what he had done. Sibyl shivered at thoughts of hands upon her; she still dreamt sickly of dominus’s touch and stench. Gannicus looked upon her and refused, and Sibyl’s gratitude only grew.

 

He still did not like her though.

 

They reached understanding when rescuing Laeta from Romans and, when in deep fear of Roman attack, Sibyl found herself heedlessly throwing arms around him. His touch was not the discomfort and torture of memories she expected and was haunted by, instead it brought only the surprise of warm comfort, a thing long craved and thought impossible. He truly was a blessing. It hurt Sibyl that he could not see that, and that he rejected her gratitude so wholly given. But by the time they reached the snowy ridge, he was able to stand her presence, and Sibyl thanked the gods for that. She wondered what Diotimos had thought of him, if they had ever exchanged words or sparred or drank together. Diotimos had been as bent toward pleasure as Gannicus. The thought warmed corners of her.

 

She felt Saxa’s frank assessing gaze on her and tried not to stare back. She did not wish to cause trouble, not when Saxa brought Gannicus clear enjoyment. He deserved all that gave him pleasure.

 

But Saxa cornered her one day and looked her intently up and down. Then she kissed Sibyl’s lips with infinite gentleness. Sibyl had never seen her show such attitude toward even Gannicus. Saxa's eyes were strong when they opened again.

 

“This is yours,” she said firmly, gesturing to Sibyl’s body. “Hold to it.”

 

She brushed fingers across Sibyl’s lips and smiled with equal feeling before walking away without words. Sibyl could only watch, her lips tingling and her heart throbbing with Diotimos’s laugh.

 

Afterward she smiled small and warm whenever Saxa looked her way. She still shadowed Gannicus, spilling over with gratitude. But he was repelling Romans and when she wandered alone through camp, observing and absorbing this new place, strangers looked at her with dominus’s eyes. She retreated to medicus’s tent and offered her hands.

 

Laeta was drowning in sadness and pain. Sibyl brushed her hair and brought her food and water. The high-born Roman stared uncomprehending.

 

“Why do you tend to me? I am to become ash and bones.”

 

Sibyl remembered the taste of ash in her own mouth, the surety of death. She prayed silently to Angerona and to Bona Dea. She watched her own hands twist Laeta’s hair into something approaching beautiful. She remembered watching her mother do the same. But these were Sibyl's hands, no longer under Roman command – it was a sudden piercing thought and it brought her pause. This truly was her choice and she found she was glad of it, to use what was hers, to be an answer herself. She was doing as Gannicus had. She was also looking, opening eyes, as Diotimos had cajoled her to. He had been right. Now she had only to find her words and use them.

 

“Nothing is sure now, only the gods,” she answered quietly, praying for strength and courage such as that which had guided Gannicus to her dominus’s villa. “We live; we are cared for, is that not enough?”

 

“There is no care or favour for me here. They would have me die.”

 

Sibyl shook her head. “Not all. Spartacus asks of you each day.”

 

Something flickered in Laeta’s eyes but her mouth twisted unhappily. “He would use me against my people. He sees only game pieces.”

 

“He sees you,” Sibyl pushed gently, knowing the truth of what she’d witnessed, and knowing Diotimos was smiling at her voice finally being used and heard.

 

She had not spoken to Spartacus, but she had eyes open enough to see how his countenance changed when talking of Laeta. He tried to douse it, but the spark was there. And Diotimos was right; more than one together would see nightmares vanish.

 

Laeta fell silent, only thanking Sibyl for her help. Sibyl left her to thoughts and was giving food to the injured when she heard Nasir speak.

 

“You show kindness when few wish her breathing still.”

 

“She is lost and heart-wounded,” replied Sibyl. “Who amongst us does not need kind words?”

 

It was Nasir’s turn to fall silent and Sibyl watched the pain ripple through his face. He had a lover, she remembered, one of Spartacus’s trusted lieutenants, a man so full of fury and love that little else emerged from him. She wondered what it was like to feel so much love.

 

She had guessed at Nasir’s prior life amongst Romans, his manner betrayed him, and she had been glad to find one with understanding of what it was like to be so unravelled since birth. Yet he had found and embraced one whose hands upon him did not bring tortured memory or pain, one who returned his affections. Sibyl could only wonder at his strength.

 

There was movement at the tent’s mouth, and the dark-skinned pirate who often watched Nasir was there again. Sibyl lowered her eyes; she did not feel comfortable under his gaze. It was dismissive of her and so hungry on Nasir.

 

When he left, having gleaned Nasir was busy; she looked again at the former body slave. His posture was stooped and upset twisted through his expression. He and his lover, Agron, had been at cross-purposes of late, exchanging stinging words and nursing silent furious pain. She felt Diotimos at her shoulder once more, encouraging and nudging, and took a deep breath, for both herself and Nasir.

 

“May I sleep at your side this night? The cold bites and my sleep…my sleep has not been peaceful since Diotimos…”

 

She could not force the words forth, the effort of remembering making her shake. Nasir stepped closer but he did not lay hand on her. That understanding was balm indeed. “He was your friend.”

 

“As brother to me, keeping those away who thought to harm or take from me what dominus did each day.”

 

It was the most she’d spoken about such things since leaving dominus’s villa, but Nasir nodded. Relief flooded Sibyl – she had guessed that he slept alone while he and Agron fumed and despaired of each other, and whilst she felt safest at Gannicus's side, Nasir at least understood her needs and fears.

 

When they lay down side by side in the small cold tent, Nasir did not touch her. He called Agron's name in his sleep, by turns angry and sorrowful. Sibyl dreamed of Diotimos, his smile dripping with blood and his eyes full of pride. When he touched her, she felt warm again. Only Gannicus's touch gave her such reassurances now, and Saxa’s kiss. Sibyl awoke at sun-up with tingling lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Laeta was of higher spirit when Sibyl spoke to her after restful sleep. Sibyl smiled silently, and thanked the gods for what burned in Laeta's eyes and prayed that it would not be doused. She thought she saw Gannicus nearby, but he was not there when she looked again. She was always looking.

 

Saxa nudged her and slung cloaks around her shoulders. “Lift head and see yourself without frost in veins.”

 

“I pray first and will lift your name to the gods in gratitude,” Sibyl replied, her words stumbling in shy awe.

 

Saxa laughed but did not refuse the honour. Sibyl found her place in the ring of worshippers, candles flickering upon driftwood alter. She closed eyes and spilled names and entreaties to Bona Dea for women who needed strength, to Aesculapius for health, to Clementia for mercy, to Diana so that their hunt would bring success, and always to Angerona. She spilled blood in Spartacus's name, and whispered fervently for Gannicus, for Nasir, for Saxa.

 

When she opened eyes again, the moon had risen and someone was dragging her free of the circle. The cold had sapped her strength, else she would have struggled. Then Gannicus brushed fingers to her arm and all was warmth within her.

 

“You seek fucking death?”

 

“I seek blessing from the gods.”

 

Gannicus snorted but aided her to Nasir's tent, though the man was absent. “Spilling blood in snow will hasten defeat, not victory.”

 

Sibyl shook her head. How could he not see it yet? “I am a vessel. And do what I must to ensure safe path for this cause.”

 

“And what of your own path? Would you see it to the afterlife so soon?”

 

Gannicus's gaze was intent upon Sibyl as he spoke and she lowered eyes. She was grateful for his warmth and concern, and always for his presence. But she thought of Diotimos and Saxa and words clung to her.

 

“It is my choice to see victory for Spartacus, you, for all who stretch for answers. It is my path to take.”

 

He stared at her for moments more, something in his eyes that caused her breath to tighten. But he only told her to stay out of the storm and left her in mouth of tent, a place Nasir found her when moon had risen fully. Concerned, he pulled her inside, Sibyl cold enough to lean against him, accepting touch. It did not make her skin crawl, for he was Nasir, respectful and possessing knowledge of why she refused most men's nearness.

 

Cold made her tongue clumsy and she voiced what had before stayed locked away. “Agron does not seek you out when death paces so close?”

 

Nasir shook his head, misery clear in each movement. “He blinds himself to reason, and sees battles where there are none.”

 

Sibyl's mouth smiled crookedly. She thought of the pirate who watched Nasir so intently still, and how often the rebel numbers dropped, thanks to cold and sword. Had Agron not been by Spartacus's side since start of rebellion? How many had he seen fall? She thought of half-told stories passed amongst the former slaves, of who Agron, Spartacus, Crixus, and Gannicus had been, and what they had suffered in fight for freedom. They stood elevated above all. She thought of what she saw with open eyes and how even now, in cold and desperation, Diotimos whispered in her ear.

 

“He fears loss,” she breathed softly, Gannicus, Agron, Spartacus all blurring in mind. “Fears the pain of it once more. There are stories...”

 

Sleep blanketed her before her words fully spilled and she dreamt of Saxa pulling her free of a snowdrift and marking her brow with a kiss and a laugh. Gannicus was nearby, she was sure, but she could not see him. Saxa handed her a sword.

 

“Let us seek together, sister.”

 

Sibyl shook her head and dropped the blade. “It is not my weapon.”

 

“Prayers cannot shed blood.”

 

“But they can raise shield.”

 

And Sibyl opened her mouth, letting words pour forth that thickened the air. All around was Diotimos's laughter and Gannicus's touch yet Sibyl could not grasp them and somewhere close, she could hear dominus's voice. She woke to find herself wrapped in Nasir's arms. She jerked away, dominus's voice and attached pained memories still too fresh. Nasir did not reach for her, but held her gaze and let her recognise surroundings. Her breaths were short but she nodded, relief flying through her. She was safe, dominus was dead.

 

“Apologies,” she gasped out.

 

“The past is strong over you still.”

 

Nasir kept close, a reassuring presence, but did not presume his touch would comfort. Sibyl trembled, with cold, with fears still so present despite death robbing her tormentor of sport. She dared to ask in private silence. “How do you bear it?”

 

“I know no other way. It is bone-deep in me, part of flesh and being. I remember little before lessons and dominus's touch. But it is not my all. There is room for memories, for lessons learned and pained experience, but there is room for things greater still.”

 

Her gaze became sad and Sibyl knew he thought of Agron. She had seen how the two gazed on each other, their hearts open and raw. Somehow, despite experiences so close to her own, Nasir had found love and allowed its touch.

 

“The gods bless you,” she told him.

 

Nasir looked at her, pained and fractured. They walked together to gain breakfast, then Sibyl turned thoughts to the medicus and all who would need her hands that day. She prayed for strength and words of equal force and kindness.

 

Saxa smiled at her, hands around an amphora and wealth of meaning between her lips. Sibyl felt warm.


	4. Chapter 4

There were always more who needed attention and calming words. Sibyl pressed cold hands to bloody wounds, all thoughts of dominus wiped out by blood and death. The smell of life passing blotted all else from mind. Sibyl prayed silently, or whispered over those who shared faith and asked for words given.

 

“You speak to the gods,” one man gasped out. “Your words have meaning.”

 

Sibyl closed his eyes herself.

 

Laeta's wound healed well, despite cold and unfriendly surroundings. And there was fire and fight still in her, a blessing. Laeta's smile was a secret. It caused Sibyl to smile also.

 

Spartacus continued to visit Laeta regularly. Sibyl continued to pray.

 

Her mind was full when a man with scars on his cheek and a blue cloth tied to arm grasped her. The touch made stomach drop and she attempted to pull away, but his grip was strong and he leaned close, his breath causing her to shudder.

 

“I would seek audience,” the man breathed, meaning clear in closeness and eyes.

 

Sibyl shook her head. “Medicus waits for me, I am needed.”

 

“My need is greater.”

 

Amongst so many rebels, despite Spartacus's words, some still took what was not offered. Sibyl's throat trembled and she prayed fervently, words spilling forth from lips. “Angerona has been with me since first his touch was on my skin, so Diotimos claimed. He said I bore her mark upon mouth and would bring relief to those deep in sorrow and pain. But he died before me, was his blood a sacrifice demanded?”

 

The man frowned at her words, at her glassy eyes, and his grip lessened. Sibyl's words continued. “I ask for strength, for the way to be clear. I open veins for Spartacus, for his success. Do you desire more? I would know the path you wish for me. I stand alive because of your blessings, because of answers you send me on two feet with swords in hand. I ask...”

 

She kept her gaze fixed on the man, prayers and wonderings flowing. There were voices close by, and when the man turned towards them, Sibyl wrenched away and ran. She collided with Agron. His hands steadied her, his touch a jolt but not unpleasant. He frowned at what he saw in her eyes, and glared over her shoulder.

 

“You take fucking liberty?” he snarled.

 

“She was willing,” the man insisted. “Though her mouth runs mad.”

 

Sibyl glanced upward at Agron, at the strength and size of him, at the anger tensing jaw and fists. Yet Nasir felt safe and content with him, and mourned his absence. Agron was a blessing, and an answer too, Nasir’s answer. Sibyl relaxed, inch by inch, in his presence and stood firm.

 

“See yourself from fucking sight,” Agron ordered.

 

The man spat at Sibyl's feet but left swiftly. Sibyl sighed out remaining tension and thanked the gods before turning to Agron.

 

“Gratitude.”

 

Agron nodded and measured her with his eyes a moment. “You share Nasir's tent?”

 

“Shelter and companionship gratefully received,” she replied.

 

Agron looked as though questions twisted in him but would not be spoken. Sibyl found she had no words herself to offer. What lay between him and Nasir was a thing far from her own experience. And the gods stayed silent. Perhaps that was answer enough, that it was not her wound to heal.

 

“Medicus needs me,” Sibyl broke the silence.

 

“I will see you to him.”

 

He was silent as they walked, though she sensed his thoughts were busy. He wore a face like that of Nasir's, pained and lost. She prayed for them both.

 

Later, when returning to Nasir's tent, she saw Agron and Nasir's profiles inside, words exchanged between them. They were not touching, but neither were they shouting. Sibyl thanked the gods and watched only a moment more. It was not hers to witness. She retreated to a larger tent, packed with cold figures. Laeta was wrapped in Spartacus's arms, shivering but not alone. Saxa whistled and held an arm wide in invitation. Sibyl smiled in weary gratitude, too frozen to be shy; Saxa's offer was a great kindness as death stalked the snow. She huddled at Saxa's side and felt the press of frigid skin and hair laced with ice. But there were also blankets and arms around her and warm breath on her face that did not turn stomach. A blessing indeed.

 

She did not ask about Gannicus, though she greatly wished to. Was he patrolling? Seeking companionship elsewhere? There was sadness to Saxa, though it did not consume her.

 

Sibyl slept, head on Saxa's shoulder. Diotimos greeted her in dreams, whole and scarred, holding keys which he pressed to her hand.

 

“Open eyes, Sibyl.”

 

*

 

Gannicus appeared to absent himself more often. Sibyl worried and prayed and tried to seek him, but he was always elsewhere. Nasir offered only that Gannicus continued to follow Spartacus's lead. For that, Sibyl was grateful. Nasir also offered what he knew of Gannicus's story – that he had lost a great friend and that he carried even greater guilt. Sibyl thought of what she'd seen in Gannicus's eyes. Was this another wound she was not to tend?

 

Her eyes were open – Gannicus was as lost and hurt as so many of them. And if he did not wish to be found, he wouldn't be.

 

She sat beside Saxa, drinking broth. Saxa thrust sword handle to Sibyl's hand. Sibyl stilled, it was an echo of her dream, paired with memory in Diotimos's voice. The gods were whispering once more.

 

“It is not my weapon,” she managed to oblige.

 

“Prayer cannot shed blood.” Saxa was insistent. “And Romans will not pause for it.”

 

And Saxa did not wish Sibyl to fall? A blush long absent spread across Sibyl’s cheek, and she accepted the short sword, securing it at waist. Saxa held her close, her lips firm on Sibyl's brow. Her touch was relief and care, and Sibyl accepted both. She wished to seek more.

 

The gods were smiling. Or was that Diotimos?

 

Saxa’s kiss melted snow.

 

_-the end_


End file.
